Be brief. There is no use for meandering sentences here. No rose garden esthetics. I have seen the writers for what they, all to many of them, are. Amateurs at narcissism.
Where did it start? The desire to crack everything wide open. To put it all out there. The silly hope that there still is something ‘up there’ after the demise of our gods, something that produces closure with a final judgement. And the writer is convinced that this judgement will vindicate them. In other words, they ponder nihilism by refusing to operate under the sign of nihilism.
Writers pick fights with other writers. They weave an elaborate imaginary fabric on which to project their hierarchy of adequacy, and they sit proudly on the top of it. It is not complicated: people get older, their minds lose flexibility, they crave a public identity and the path of least resistance is their own accomplishments, mediocre or not.
Presenting yourself as a Mr. Nobody is cynically denounced as cheap marketing. A writer is a branded personal identity, rooted only in words. A personality leaving a trail of excretion on their parade to their graves.
And yet, you don’t have to be. There is no private language, but there are other games. There is much more Spiel than dreamed of in your imagination. There is a secret solidarity between writers and readers, little known writers and even littler known writers. An anti-society of people sharing cheap metaphysical wonder. Writers who want to become invisible through their words.
A whining bunch. Jealous, hateful, cynical, allergic to life. Too much writing is rooted in righteousness.
My mind is faltering, strength is lost, I apologize for the lack of style. Can meek words exist, or can we only really hear them after they have become all-powerful?